Max Collins - Quarry

Actually, the rushing around was pretty well over by now. Two cops were standing with hands on butts as two guys in white were coming down out of the stairwell carrying a stretcher with a sheet-covered Albert Leroy. A few people were milling around, mostly women from the Laundromat down a couple doors, but there was no crowd really, still too early for that. A tall man in his forties, well-dressed, was standing next to one of the policemen, who was asking him questions in a respectful, next-of-kin sort of way. An older man, who’d been standing in the background, moved forward and touched the tall man on the shoulder and seemed to be offering condolences. The tall man nodded his head sadly and the shorter, older man nodded back and turned and walked across the street, in my direction.

As he approached I saw that he wasn’t just short, he was very short, maybe five-four, but he carried himself erect and he was a handsome old guy. His features were well-defined and though deep-set in his face, unmarred by age, and the character lines down his cheeks were straight, slashing strokes. He was wearing a white shirt, rolled up at the sleeves, and loose brown trousers and when he passed by me, he muttered, “Poor old soul,” as though he expected me to know what he was talking about.

My eyes followed him as he entered Boyd’s building, through the front door on street level. As the door closed I noticed the sign in the draped front window: “Samuel E. Richards, Chiropractor.”

I stroked my shoulder, said to myself, “Why not?” and followed the old guy inside.

“Sir?” I said.

He turned quickly and smiled. A kind smile, but shrewd. “Yes, young man?”

“You’re Dr. Richards?”

“I’d better be,” he grinned, “otherwise I’d be breaking the law using his office.”

“I could use some help.”

“Most people could. Wellsir, I’ll tell you, I’m not open for business just yet. The wife’s cooking up some breakfast and I’ll have to take care of that before I take care of you. How about coming back in thirty minutes, half an hour?”

“I can smell the bacon frying. Smells good.”

“We got a little apartment set-up to the back of the office. The wife and me’re getting on in the years, couldn’t manage an office and house both. And she’s got arthritis, don’t you know, and the steps in our house weren’t doing her any good. You know, you got to compromise sometimes, so here I am.”

I told him it sounded like a nice arrangement. I looked around; we were in a waiting room, with several chairs and a stand with some old magazines on it. There was no receptionist. “You don’t mind if I wait here, do you?”

“Not at all. What you say was wrong with you?”

“My shoulder. Had an accident an hour or so ago.”

“What sort of accident?”

“Slipped on the soap in the shower, would you believe it?”

“Surely would,” he said, smiling gently. “You’d be surprised how many accidents take place in bathrooms. Well, you come on in the other room, we’ll get you on the table and get you relaxed. Shouldn’t take more than five minutes to throw my breakfast down.”

His working office was small, just large enough for a desk and chair and two chiro tables, one of which stood upright waiting to be lowered. That was the one he had me climb onto and eased me down and it was comfortable, so comfortable it was hard resisting the urge to sleep.

I turned my head to one side, a painful move considering my shoulder, and studied the room; the walls were a soothing pastel green, recently painted, but everything else was old: the desk and chair were scarred with age and the chiro tables had been in action for some time. On the wall was his diploma, or first license, and it was brown with age. I squinted and read the date: “1921.” I was still in that position, looking over the room, when he came back from a very hasty breakfast.

“Get your head back in the slot, there, boy, twisting your neck to the side isn’t doing your shoulder any good.” I followed his advice and felt his fingers on my neck. He probed my neck and upper back, said, “Oh yes, here’s the problem,” and went to work.

He was good. Very. A pro. His fingertips were super- sensitive and his moves were powerful but painless. He had a knack for catching me off guard. He’d say something conversational, like, “Going to be a rainy one,” and as I’d start to reply, down he’d come, like a man twice his size and half his age. “That was my Sunday punch,” he’d laugh softly, and go on to something else. He gave me fifteen minutes of adjusting, most of it spent on my shoulder, but some of it on my neck and lower back, and when he lifted the table up and I got off, I felt fine. I told him so.

“Glad to hear it,” he said. “That’s my real satisfaction, getting quick results. Good idea getting here soon after you took your fall, too. Easy working on something like that right after she happens. Couple days go by and all kinds of tension sets in.”

“You don’t use X ray?” I asked him, remembering bills I’d paid to a chiro in Wisconsin.

He held up his hands, flexing his fingers. “These is X ray enough.”

I nodded, said, “Listen, how old are you, anyway?”

“Eighty-one, this January past.”

“That’s remarkable.”

“Maybe so, I don’t know. I’m not so good as I was once, but I guess I’m still good enough. When I get past a certain point, I’ll give it up.”

“Oh?”

“You got to be sure you get results, every time. Otherwise you should give up what you’re doing. Do it right or not at all.”

“You get results, take my word. How much I owe you, anyway?”

“Four bucks,” he said, and I gave it to him. He explained in detail how all the other chiros in town had gone up to six, but he couldn’t see charging that much. He was one of those talkative old guys who enjoy having someone to do their talking at. I wondered if maybe I couldn’t work that to my advantage.

“Say,” I said, “what was all that commotion across the way?”

He shook his head. He sat at the chair at the desk and I sat on the table next to it. He said, “Terrible thing, terrible thing, that. Poor old Albert Leroy. Poor old boy. Old, I say… I’m eighty some and he was, what, maybe forty, but he was older than me. Much. He didn’t have a soul. No wife, wasn’t particular close to his relatives. Didn’t have a profession to speak of. No goals, no pride in anything.”

“What happened to him, anyway?” I had him going good now, all I had to do was prod him gently now and then. What a find.

“Somebody shot him, appears. Appears he was robbed.” He shook his head some more. “Doesn’t surprise me, people getting the wrong idea about old Albert. Figuring he had money stashed in his place somewheres. I’ll bet dollars to doughnuts he didn’t have a penny hid. So somebody shot him and for nothing, I’ll wager.”

He was right about that. I said, “Why would anyone think this fella had money?”

“Well, his family’s got money. You from around here?”

“No. I’m a salesman, passing through.”

“Still, you might’ve heard the Kitchen Korner program. They sell the Kitchen Korner products all over the Midwest.”

“No, don’t think I have.”

“There’s this radio program, don’t you see, called Kitchen Korner, and it’s out of Port City but they syndicate it all over this part of the country. It’s nothing fancy, just some women sit around and gabble. Recipes, folksy talk and the like. It was started up years ago by an old gal name of Martha Leroy.”

“Leroy?”

“The same. Albert’s momma. The program usually consisted of old Martha and one of three or four aunts what live in the area, and her little girl, Linda Sue. Wellsir, Martha passed on ten years ago, and her husband, old Clarence Leroy, followed right on her heels. Martha was the pants and Clarence, who had a pretty fair business head, got to feeling his oats with the boss dead and buried, and took up with some filly and died of a heart attack within the month. But that’s beside the point. The program, the Kitchen Korner program-that’s ‘comer’ with a ‘K,’ don’t you know-got carried on by the daughter, Linda Sue.”